


The Photo Album

by peculiarmars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, TW: Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 22:29:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11022897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peculiarmars/pseuds/peculiarmars
Summary: John takes pictures of Sherlock when he's not looking. He shows him his favourites.





	1. Angelo's

**Author's Note:**

> here, have some angst

The very first one John showed him was taken just after the second case they solved together. It had involved a clown, a missing sister, and some oddly placed roses. After a rather exhilarating rooftop chase, they had gone to Angelo's, the adrenaline still pumping through their veins, grins on both their faces. Neither of them really denied it when Angelo winked and placed a candle on their table.

 

"I can't believe you did that," John had snickered, sinking into his seat. Sherlock chuckled deeply, and then went on to explain every reasoning as to why he did what he did. Part way through Sherlock's explanations (more like a speech, really. Sherlock could talk for England) John subtly pulled his phone from his trouser pocket and snapped a picture of Sherlock.

 

Later that night, he lay unable to sleep, staring at that picture.

 

Sherlock was in mid-speech, mouth halfway open. He was waving his hands around as he often did when he deduced, his face bathed in the golden light of the restaurant. London is alive with lights and people behind him, but that doesn't matter. Sherlock holds the attention captive. The backgrounds blurs as he stares as he swipes a hand over his eyes.

 

"It's one of my favourites," He says as he strokes over the photo lovingly. "It was one of our first. That was a difficult one." He smiled wanly. "Even for you."

 


	2. Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ehhh this one isn't so good

John flicks through the pages until he finds another one of his favourites. "Aha," He says, stabbing the page with his forefinger. "This one's a good one."

 

The photo had captured Sherlock's _'Why is humanity so stupid?'_ face perfectly. They had been on a case involving a triple murderer, and had been forced to work with Anderson. It would've been fine if Anderson had been able to keep his mouth shut and did his job, though John did wonder if Anderson actually _knew_ how to do his job. But of course this was Anderson they were talking about. He couldn't be quiet if his life had depended on it.

 

He had muttered something that John hadn't quite been able to catch, however Sherlock, who was in earshot, certainly had. Sherlock had ripped into Anderson, something about handling evidence correctly. There'd been a few cleverly crafted insults thrown in too, which he had laughed about in the cab on the way home.

 

Standing across the room, John just _happened_ to have his phone out at that precise second. The picture he had just _happened_ to take captured Sherlock's anger beautifully, he always thought. Then again he tended to find everything about the man beautiful (as a bonus, he also got Anderson's terrified expression).

 

"You know, I saw him the other day." John says out of the blue after a few moments "Anderson. Outside of Starbucks. He apologised, starting crying in the street. I think you yelling at him shook him up more than usual." He pauses. "I told him to fuck off." 

 


	3. Sleeping

John turned the pages of the album, coming to a stop on a seemingly random page.

 

"Oh, I adore this one, Sherlock." He said whispered.

 

The picture was larger than the others, taking up almost half a page. The quality was better, too. John had just brought a new phone, an Iphone, and the picture quality was astounding to him.

 

John trailed his fingers lightly up Sherlock's inked jawline, resting on top of his then closed eyelids.

 

"It was just after our first time, when I woke up. You were still sleeping. You looked so peaceful." He added the last part as an afterthought. It didn't take any truth from the statement, of course.

 

Layed against cream sheets, hair a wild mess completely nude, Sherlock looked like an angel to him. Or something poetic like that.

 

But the reason why he adores this photo is really because of what happened after. After John had spent thirty minutes simply staring at Sherlock's face, the man in question had blinked himself awake. It had taken him only two minutes take note that he was in John's bed, next to John, and nude. John had been slightly fearful that Sherlock would reject him and act like it never happened. Instead, the corners of Sherlock's mouth had turned up in a small smile.

 

"Oh, good morning, John." He had said blearily, as if waking up in his flatmates bed nude with an equally nude flatmate was completely normal.

 

_Beyond that John's memories consist of the feeling of skin on skin touch, the way Sherlock melted into the deep kiss John gave him, the hitch in Sherlock's breath as he lazily dipped his hand under the sheet-_

 


	4. Violin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the shortest chapter I've ever written

"This one is another one of my favourites," John says, stroking the photo.

 

The photo was taken in the middle of the night, after one of John's less-frequent nightmares. Listening to the sounds of the flat at night, hearing Sherlock pull note after flawless note from the strings in the dead of night was a norm. Sherlock always left the door to the living room ajar, and then acted as if he didn't hear the steps creaking as John sat quietly and just listened to the flow of the music.

 

Through the crack in the door, Sherlock was silhouetted by the golden glow of an outside streetlamp, the light crawling through the half-closed curtains. The violin was at his neck, his back straight, facing the window. John had known that Sherlock knew he was there, but he had always wondered whether Sherlock had known that he had taken the picture.

 

"I always thought that the light made you look angelic." John said quietly.

 


	5. Graveyard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angsty. Also!!! comment If you like this fic bc I love this pairing and would be very happy to write more of them.

"They're my favourites. I would show you more, but it's starting to rain. Mrs Hudson worries." Except she won't, he hasn't seen her since he moved out of Bakerstreet three months ago. He turns to the very last page in the album, where there's no picture, instead there's a letter. It's not long, only two words, written in Sherlock's hurried scrawl. He doesn't show Sherlock this one, for it is only himself who he ever lets see it.

 

_Goodbye, John._

The paper is crumpled from being screwed up so many times, and there's a big tear down the middle from where John got drunk one night. John closes the album with a thud.

 

He runs his hand along Sherlock's name, engraved into the stone before him. His finger tips come back stained with dirt. "I really need to clean this." He mutters to himself. Then he clears his throat.

 

"I wanted to tell you something, Sherlock." He says, patting the gravestone one last time. "I've met someone." He takes a deep breath. "I work with her, she's nice. She not a replacement. I won't ever find anyone worthy of ever being the same to me as you were. But she's nice, you know, and I think I might be happy with her."

 

He straightens his back, patting the gravestone. His hands tremble at his sides and he curls them into fists. _Ever the soldier._

 

"But you are still the wisest man I ever knew. And the best friend I ever had. God, I love you so much." And then he picks up the photo album and doesn't look back.

 


End file.
